


Don't you dare forget me

by Saphirott



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Episode: s12e11 Regarding Dean, M/M, Memory Loss, Mental Anguish, One Shot, Sam Winchester Takes Care of Dean Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-25
Updated: 2019-04-25
Packaged: 2020-01-31 19:59:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18598381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saphirott/pseuds/Saphirott
Summary: One Shot created from chapter 12x11 "Regarding Dean"."Don't you dare forget me""Why?""Because when you forget me, I will cease to exist.""Don't talk nonsense.""It's the truth."





	Don't you dare forget me

**Author's Note:**

> Well, hello to all of you again...
> 
> Today I bring you this story that I had half two years ago, since the Regarding Dean chapter was broadcasted, and that was in season 12.
> 
> I have to say that this chapter, despite the humour with which they deal with it, seems to me to be a very hard chapter and certainly a sublime performance by Jensen Ackles, in my opinion, the best in these 14 years.
> 
> It's not because I'm an unconditional supporter of his work. As daughter and niece of Alzheimer's patients, the topic touches me very closely and I wanted to take the opportunity offered by this chapter to reflect many other concerns that assail you in these circumstances, not as the patient who suffers, but as the person next to the patient.
> 
> I don't remember why I left it stopped, but it came back to my memory and now it is finished.
> 
> I hope you like it.

**Don't you dare forget me**

**By: Saphirott**

 

**_“Don't you dare forget me.”_ **

**_“Why?”_ **

**_“Because when you forget me, I will cease to exist.”_ **

**_“Don't talk nonsense.”_ **

**_“It's the truth.”_ **

 

He doesn't remember how it started, at least he doesn't remember it now. It's ironic, his memory manifests itself in a capricious way, concise at times, somewhat blurry at others and sometimes totally out of service; without light, without coverage, a black screen that he can only look at with frustration. Lately he spends a lot of time in that condition. Fucking son of a bitch...

He can remember Metallica's full discography, he can remember that Kirk Hammet and Jason Newsted replaced Dave Mustaine and Cliff Burton; the first was kicked out of the band for alcohol and drug abuse and the second because he died in a bus accident in Sweden. In fucking Sweden! How can he remember Sweden and not what he had for breakfast this morning?

 

**_“So close no matter how far_ **

**_Couldn`t be much more from the heart_ **

**_Forever trusting who we are_ **

**_And nothing else matters_ **

 

**_Never opened myself this way_ **

**_Life i sours, we live i tour way_ **

**_All these words I don`t just say_ **

**_And nothing else matters_ **

 

**_Trust I seek and I find in you_ **

**_Every day fo rus something new_ **

**_Open mind for a different view_ **

**_And nothin else matters_ **

 

**_Never cared for what they do_ **

**_Never cared for what they know_ **

**_But I know.”_ **

 

They say musical memory is the last thing to be lost. He's not sure if it's true, but now he keeps humming, not out loud, but humming in his head, as his fingers follow the rhythm imagined on the worn fabric of his trousers. He hums to Metallica..., maybe it's not because of the memory, maybe he's just nervous; not scared, just nervous. He always hums Metallica when he's nervous, that's all.

He takes a deep breath, filling his lungs with an air in which he refuses to recognize the stale, dusty smell of another one of those motel rooms that no one would mind forget. The corner of his mouth rises in a ridiculous grin, a sad smile for the unfortunate joke that has crossed his head and now has no place, but that, in his twisted asshole mind, has its funny side.

He opens his eyes carefully, blinking with a certain laziness, allowing that room to gradually become aware around him; the walls of tattered wallpaper, the old and scarce furniture and the orange light that seeps through the only window and shows him vestiges of the sunset. How long has he been with his eyes closed?

With a yawn peeking from his lips, he looks around the room until his gazes cross. Sam is sitting on a chair too small for him, on one side and on the table, the laptop screen shines, momentarily forgotten, all his attention now focused on him.

Sam is his brother.

He says nothing, but his face reflects the same anxiety and fear as his gaze. Those expressive eyes that change like the weather, reflecting all their tonalities and that now, appear somewhat opaque, a little deeper, terribly tired.

“Dean?”

And the name scrapes in his throat, the voice trembles and the anxiety becomes as evident in those four letters as a train would be passing over him. Dean clenches his fist until he digs his nails into his palm, taking advantage of the fact that Sam can't see the gesture from his position, he clenches his jaw, but answers quickly, because he knows that his brother won't breathe until he does.

Because Sam is his brother.

“Yes...,” replies. Because he's Dean, Dean Winchester.

Sam is finally breathing. He can see the tension slipping out of his huge body with a flan-like tremor. His eyes soften and give him a shy smile. He looks younger, whenever he sees him worried he seems to be. He reminds him of the insufferable teenager he was; always protesting, always annoyed with something, something he was usually guilty of.

_["Dean! That's my shirt."_

_“What are you talking about, squirt? Everything you have is inherited and, in addition, it was the only one left clean. And I saw it first.”_

_“Jerk!”_

_“Bitch!"]_

_["I'm not going to stay in the car...”_

_“Come on, Sammy... Have you seen the girl? That beauty requires a decent bed. It'll only be a couple of hours..., maybe three. Take a nap, little brother, it will be good for you.”_

_“Jerk!”_

_“Bitch!"]_

They argued, fought and insulted each other, but in the end, there were always those smiles. Small or big smiles, scoundrels or shy, young, wild, full of life. Smiles that said "it's okay", "everything's okay", "we're together and we're us".

He didn't want to forget that smile, he didn't want to forget what it meant, but even if he denied it, he knew that this moment would finally come and judging by the rhythm of events, it would be sooner rather than later. It was frustrating, frightening, a bitch, a BIG bitch. Destiny laughing at him again, as if it hadn't already done enough. He doesn't understand what a sick obsession it has towards his person and he is afraid to think about it.

He is afraid, for God's sake he is afraid. He is frightened. Dean Winchester, who has walked through heaven, hell and purgatory; who has faced unimaginable things, who has died and risen countless times. The man who in none of those moments has lost his arrogance, his rogue smile and that suicidal courage. That, that is the man who trembled this morning in front of his reflection, seeing how everything that he is, escapes between his fingers.

“My name is Dean Winchester. Sam is my brother and Castiel is my best friend,” he murmurs in front of the mirror, with a pale face and wide open eyes. He allows himself to smile, a trembling smile that doesn't deceive anyone. It wasn't bad, it was easy, how could it not be easy? It's an absurd phrase, a simple exercise even for a kindergarten child. Everything is fine.

“My name is Dean Winchester. Sam is..., Sam is my brother and Castiel...”

He breathes, he breathes deeply, scrutinizing his reflection, searching in the green tide of his enormous eyes that look glassy and frightened. He breathes again and starts again.

“My name is... Dean Winchester,” he tells himself he can do it, he can do it. “Sam..., Sam is...”

“My name is... Dean...,” his voice trembles and his eyes are flooded with a sea of anger and fear. “My name is...”

And he has to hold on tightly to the pottery in the sink, because he feels that his legs are weak and that he will fall shamefully before that stranger who is watching him. But all that happened this morning. Now his head is lucid again, now he knows his name and he knows who Sam is.

This is undoubtedly the worst part, the cruelest part. The moment you are aware that you are losing, slowly giving up positions that there is no way to recover. He began to hate moments like now, the moments when he returned to be lucid, returned to be him. He began to think that it would be much easier to let go, to be dragged into oblivion. Not knowing did no harm. A past you don't remember doesn't hurt, nor do you long for a future when you no longer dream.

The only thing that holds him back, the only thing he cares about leaving behind is him. To Sam.

“I'm going to stretch my legs," he says. He needs to get out, get some air, get rid of that oppression that occupies his chest and doesn't let him breathe, feeling that he will fail again in the only task that really matters to him.

He stands up and feels the heavy pulse of his heart in his temples. He feels the scrutinizing gaze of his brother and although he does not see him, because he does not dare to look at him, he senses the tension of his body, alert and vigilant, ready to reach him in a second if it were necessary. He straightens his back and walks to the door in the most natural way he can remember.

“Dean...” hear before he finishes opening the door. “Don't worry, okay? I'm going to find the solution. Let's fix this problem.”

Sam's eyes look at him with the same preoccupation that his tired shoulders reflect, the same preoccupation that can't hide that attempt at a smile; a smile that doesn't hide his fears, but neither does it hide the trace of a desperate determination.

That smile... he has seen it before, yes, surely he has seen it before. He smiles back, albeit in a somewhat insecure way and turns to the door.

“Of course," he says before leaving. When the door closes behind him, he wonders what problems that computer boy will be referring to.

 

**********

 

When the door closes, his body collapses on the rickety chair that protests at the overexertion with a pitiful crunch that he pays no attention to. He glides his gaze across the empty room as he feels the façade he has built in front of his brother crumble, leaving all that amalgam of mixed feelings hidden behind it to surface, destroying his conscience as a fire spreads on a mountain without a firebreak.

Fear, anger, guilt and questions, lots of questions. Questions for which he does not know the answer and from which he deduces that, even if he knew them, he would not like them. He feels tired, running a marathon against the clock, seeing how time escapes between his fingers without the goal seeming even a little closer.

His brother disappears before his eyes, he fades around the edges little by little, leaving only a silhouette, a shadow that he can recognize as his own but that is no longer him. Rage and helplessness, that's what he feels before this. A furious rage that comes from the bottom of his chest and burns in his blood like a river of lava. A rage with which he would kill again that wizard who bewitched his brother even knowing that his death would solve nothing.

Impotence...

What to do when you don't know what to do? How to help? How to act? How do you keep frustration, despair, fear at bay? How do you keep smiling? How do you appear that everything is fine, that it is no more difficult than any other case? How do you keep calm...? He is failing in what he does best, to investigate. Three days later the score is devastating and his brother's "illness" is beating him by a wide margin.

Fear...

What's to come, what's happened. Fear of that fleeting blink that turns the wild green of a jungle full of strength and life, in the translucent aquamarine of an ocean empty of everything, just full of doubts. Fear of feeling that he, too, blurs every time that lack of recognition appears in the beloved eyes of his brother. Fear of the disappearance of that "us" that has been a constant in their lives by right of birth, and that "us" that was forged in a moment that they no longer remember because it was not a single instant, but a set of instants throughout space and time.

He wonders if his memory alone will be enough to maintain that "us". If it will be enough.

Guilt...

Not because he's not with him the moment everything happened. That's something they stopped putting on their faces a long time ago, their business had risks and it was something they assumed without problems. His life was fed on adrenaline; salt, gasoline, fire, gunpowder and silver bullets, and to the same extent, it would drown in any one of them. Fucked up, but knowing that their life had a purpose, that there were people alive because of them, that the world existed because of them. That should be their end, not this, not a desert full of nothing.

He feels guilty because he has felt relief when Dean is gone, because his lungs have filled with more air in one second than he has breathed in those three nightmarish days. Guilty because he surprised himself in some microsecond, wishing that, if this had no cure, then..., that then it would end once and for all; that he would not be forced to continue betting his hopes on a gloomy roulette of chance, playing everything red even knowing that the ball is tricked and will always come out black.

Guilty because he doesn't feel strong enough to explain again who he is, who him is and what they do. Guilty because he feels like yelling at him, demanding that he pay more attention, that he make an effort to retain everything.

_"What don't you get, Dean?! Don't you get it? Try hard, damn it! Keep what I say in that stupid head of yours! Don't forget it! Don't forget us! Don't you dare forget me! Don't you dare forget me..."_

Pain...

The one who gets his nails stuck in his own flesh. He's been thinking about it for two nights, about what will happen when Dean forgets him, and he doesn't like the conclusions he's reached, nor does he feel strong enough to express them out loud at this moment, not even to think about them again. He breathes again and with that he realizes.

Another thing to reproach himself for, another moment of weakness he can't afford; because he let him out when he shouldn't be separated from his side, because he should have stopped him even though he would surely have taken a punch; because it was Dean who came out, but will he still be when he returns?

Fear.

Rage.

He's been stupid, he's given in to weakness like a civilian, as if he hadn't been facing extreme situations for years, a life, his whole life. But nothing has scared him as much as this. The urgency bulges in his veins, beats in his temples and impels him to move, to look for him, to bring him back to his side; however, whatever he is. He doesn't think he can do it, but he wants to have the strength so that his memories are enough to keep his brother, to keep the two of them anchored to the ground.

Nothing stops the fall of the worn chair when it rises and the walls tremble with the roar of the door against the frame, a couple more notches for a worn third motel. His feet fly over the surface of the worn slats that make up the floor of the corridor with the feverish haste with which the castaway seeks his lifeline. In the third turn before reaching the stairs, he practically rolls up what he was looking for so much.

“Sam...,” his voice hesitates and the fragile smile is not enough to cover the shame in his eyes. “It does not put the number of the room,” he says shaking the key in his hand. “All these doors are the same..., they should..., they should put something, shouldn't they?” He mumbles while his gaze seems to get lost in the intricate drawing that adorns the border of the wall.

And it hurts. It hurts like hell. Sam feels more that he sees that fragility that now constantly flutters over his brother like a bad omen. He feels it like a knife that goes deeper and deeper into his flesh, tearing muscles, viscera and tendons. It hurts, but he still smiles. Again, one more time. For him...

“It's true...,” answer with that wise tone that he knows bothers Dean so much. “But what do you want, dude? You always pick shitty motels.”

“Yeah...”

And on his lips is that somewhat silly smile, the one he puts on when he's still processing something. Sam waits attentively, maybe yes, maybe he's still there. The elder's frown furrows and his eyes turn annoyed. And yes, it's him again, or mostly him.

“Shut up, bitch...”

And Sam laughs, for a moment he laughs. And he recharges his energies to be able to continue this.

“Come on, let's go to the room, it's late. Jerk!”

 

**********

 

It happened again. He can' t say as he knows, but it is so. His brain went out again. Suddenly and without warning, like a fucking differential jumping during a storm. He doesn't know what has lifted the lever again and restored the current, but he does know that this one is reaching fewer and fewer places in his mind.

Everything is dark now, except for the blue reflections of the two screens that are working in the room. Scooby Doo, on TV in front of him, tears off a faint smile that quickly evaporates as he looks up and finds Sam's serious, concentrated gesture in front of the laptop, his eyes traveling quickly from one tab to another in his tireless search for a solution.

The heat invades his chest, just as he feels tears swirling behind his eyelids and down his throat. Sam will never give up, he will never stop fighting. He still knows that.

He turns off the TV and gets up and in a second all of Sam's attention is on him.

“Dean?”

“Easy, Sammy. It's me. It's still me.”

Sam can't hold his sigh in relief and Dean can't help noticing how the tension of his tired shoulders barely relaxes. “It's late. Why don't you stop for today?”

“No! No, Dean... I don't... I think I have something, I've been talking to Rowena. She says there might be a spell book that could work... I have to....”

“Leave it, Sam.”

“Rowena is coming here. I have to find out more about that book. I don't trust her. You know how she is, I can't...”

“No, Sam. I don't know what she's like. There are many things I don't know anymore.”

The defeated tone of his brother's voice leaves him silent. Dean wipes a hand over his face with a tired gesture as he breathes a long sigh.

“I am sorry. Hey, have you had dinner? I'm hungry.”

“Dean…”

“I don't care, Sam! My brain melts like an ice cube in the sun. I realize it, and it's bullshit. I don't know if the next time it goes out will be the definitive one, I don't know if when I come back I'll have lost the really important information. I just know that right now it's me, mostly. And I'd like to spend it as normally as possible, so pick it all up from the table while I prepare some dinner.”

He wants to refuse, he knows he has to refuse. Dean himself had said it, time was running out, maybe the next time would be definitive, maybe... Oh, God... He had seen his brother die many times, but this..., this was much worse. To see him become someone else, a stranger to whom Sam would be nothing or nothing. His whole body was struggling to protest, but that glint in Dean's eyes, that challenge that hid a silent plea, makes him bow his head and nod.

“Well," says Dean, satisfied, "I'll prepare something.”

“Hey, I can do it, no problem.”

Dean snorts at recognizing his own big brother's protective, worried tone in Sam's voice.

“Fuck you, Sammy. I'm still able to make some sandwiches. Pick that up.”

Sam sighs and smiles, and takes a last look at the computer screen, a quick check before saving everything and turning it off. Maybe Dean is right, maybe he should take advantage of all the time he has left, treasure those moments for both of us.

 

**********

 

“It's not true!” he squawks with laughter.

“I swear to God.”

“Are you kidding me? You're making it up.”

“Boy scout's word.”

Dean frowned thoughtfully under Sam's amusing gaze. Relaxed for a moment on the couch after dinner, Dean has asked him again to tell him everything, one more time. A whole life roughly summed up, evaluating the damage and trying to fill in the gaps. It was also a memory exercise for him, and retrieving moments like the one they were talking about made him smile. It was stupid, he knew, but it was also strangely gratifying, even though everything was wrapped in a heavy halo of nostalgia.

“I don't remember if you've ever been a boy scout, you don't look like one.”

Sam chuckles, feeling for a moment that everything is as it always is. A few beers, a few jokes, both of them. Dean's eyes glow funny, open, warming Sam's chest.

His hand moves without thinking, in a reflex act exercised over the years, something as familiar as breathing. His body moves on autopilot, seeking the only refuge he has known all his life. He needs it, after almost four days alone, he needs it just as he needs his heart to keep beating.

Time stops when he is aware of the tension of Dean's body under his hand. He closes his eyes and for a second he wants to scream. Fears forgotten for only a few minutes return, sweeping away this useless simulacrum of calm without contemplation. He could deal with Dean forgetting many things, but if he forgot what they were, what did he have left?

He opens his eyes to find a green tide of doubts, fear, apologies. A misunderstanding that rivals a frown that tries to remember, to understand. Sam feels stupid for having let himself go, for not having contemplated that possibility. For days he had focused on finding a solution, on trying to make Dean not forget who he is, on reminding him of the basics and had not fallen into reminding him every day of who they were.

“Dean, wait! -He begs when he feels him get up.”

“I just..., I just need a moment, Sammy.”

And then the bathroom door closes behind him and silence takes over.

He tells himself that he has to wait, that he has to give him that moment. He tries..., but patience requires force, a concentrated force that acts like a rope that keeps you tied to your place. Sam no longer has strength, the rope he hangs from frayed with every touch against that sharp rock that is every minute that is gone. And his rope breaks, and Sam can only fall.

His hand trembles on the doorknob, fearing what may be behind it. He sharpens his ear searching doesn't know what, a kind of signal? A call? A breath? His heart gallops in his throat and his stomach feels tight with the bitter feeling that now there is always a door between them and that he can never breathe until he can see the other side, until he knows that Dean is still there.

With that fear that has become habitual, he turns the knob and thanks that God he no longer trusts, that it is not locked. His brother is there, sitting on the toilet, his elbows on his knees and his head hidden in his hands. He doesn't even move and Sam has never seen him so small.

“We're brothers.”

His voice sounds deep and raspy and is loaded with some nuances of concern and guilt that bring to Sam reminiscences of a long time ago, when they were still very young and fought battles that were now overcome. They make Sam's lips curl in a tight, tense grimace.

“That has long ceased to matter to us, Dean," he replies in a soft, tired tone, as he sits on the edge of the bathtub, their knees touching.

Dean lifts his head and faces him. And Sam can read that open book that is Dean's eyes, he can read that infinite sadness and far above it, a fear he has never seen before. And he wants to touch him, hug him, but first he has to know that this fear is not his fault, and he squeezes his hands so tightly on the edge on which he is sitting, that his knuckles become as white as the pottery with which he is made.

“I know... I have... felt it.”

“Do you remember?”

And Sam feels how words can barely leave his throat. There's a mute apology on Dean's face and he feels like his heart can still break a little bit more with it.

“So this is going to be it, huh? After all this time, this is going to be the end of me, what's gonna kill me.”

“No, no, no, Dean. Nothing like that is going to happen, okay?”

“No? You've told me the story of my whole life. And I have to be honest, I can feel it..., it escapes my mind. Hunting monsters is one thing, but this... This... this is death, Sam. Forgetting...”

Dean's right, it's unfair. He doesn't deserve that ending. No one deserves to forget what he is, what he has achieved, or even what he has lost. Dean denies and rubs his face trying to keep at bay that incredulity and despair that he can no longer deny. And Sam feels he has to keep him afloat, convince him that this is not the end, that they will find the solution. And maybe that way, he can convince himself too.

“You know what? Let's... We'll fix it, shall we? We will…”

Sam wants Dean to look at him, to see that he's telling the truth, that he'll leave every last piece of skin finding the remedy, that he can trust him. But Dean doesn't look at it, his eyes, now as frightened as a fawn's, are fixed on the wall while his hands remain intertwined, trying to hide the trembling of his fingers.

And Sam is drowning in that tiny bathroom and he needs to get out, he needs to breathe. He gets up and feels ridiculous when his hand leaves a clumsy cheerful pat on Dean's shoulder.

“Trust me... I'm going…, I'm gonna keep going, okay?”

“Wait!”

He stops in the middle of the threshold and turns to find himself with an elusive and embarrassed look.

“I don't want to be alone...”

“You're not alone, Dean. I'll be there," he says, pointing to the table.

“I don't want to be alone now.” Dean stands up, rubbing the sweat of his palms against the worn fabric of his trousers. A patent nervousness that would be adorable if it didn't have such desperate implications. “Tell me again who we are... Make sure I don't forget. I don't want to forget that, Sam. I don't care about anything else, but I don't want... I don't want to forget that.”

And Sam's whole world wobbles under his feet, and he wants to cry, but he's not going to, because Dean doesn't need that. It's his turn to be the strong one, the pillar they both need, and he's going to do well, because he's had the best teacher anyone could wish for.

“Of course, Dean..." he says with the only thread of voice that can overcome the knot in his throat, and obtains a reasonable success when he forces a soft smile to his face.

He extends his hand in a clear invitation that is accepted after a brief second of doubt, and a bitter rejoicing runs down his spine with the heat transmitted by the other palm, which he pulls carefully, urging him to follow him into the open space of the room.

Dean allows himself to be carried away docilely, deprived of that part of his memories, he can only trust his instinct, the silent memory of his heart and body that tell him that this is the right thing, that this is what they are.

Sam sits on one of the beds and guides him until he straddles his knees. And it might seem strange, but it's not. It feels good, it feels right. And everything blurs around him, the room, the noise of the cars outside, the stale smell of the furniture. Everything ceases to exist except Sam's gaze, those eyes that stuck to him like a stamp at the very moment he saw them. Those eyes that look at him full of tenderness and love.

He feels his enormous hands cradling his face and attracting him until his foreheads rest against each other.

“You are Dean Winchester. You are my brother. You are my life.”

Dean's body tightens, his eyes close tightly as do his hands on Sam's T-shirt, both sides of his ribs.

“Look at me, Dean.” Dean obeys and Sam continues. “I'll tell you as many times as I have to, do you hear me? You are my life. I love you and I'm not going to lose you.”

Dean nods, still trying to maintain a composure that is becoming more and more inconsistent. Taking a deep breath, inspiring Sam's unmistakable aroma.

“I'm Dean Winchester,” it sounds like gravel, but it's there. “You're Sam. You're Sam, you're my brother and you're my whole life.”

There's only time for a one second smile before Sam's lips are on his. Demanding, needy, bringing him a breath of life that makes him tremble. Salty kisses for the tears of both that follow the memory of so many others shared during years. Relief kisses after a complicated hunt, tender kisses under worn-out sheets, lustful kisses in daring casts, funny kisses...

Hands move by themselves, exploring under clothing, avid on the skin. Intermittent flashes emerge to the calm surface of those lagoons in Dean's mind. As if every touch of Sam's hands and lips on his skin was a depth detonation ready to reveal the truth.

Their bodies move together, pearled with sweat as their names spill from one mouth to another. Feeling the need for liberation and yet fearing to get there. May all this end. Dean kisses Sam relentlessly, as if doing so would keep him from forgetting. He can't forget Sam's kisses, he doesn't want to.

Sam lets himself go, not wanting to think about the gravity of the moment. Keeping in constant contact with Dean's eyes so he can see in them what they are, what they really are. Brothers. Lovers. Soul mates destined to be together forever.

Always...

It seems very distant to him now, as he embraces Dean, covering him with his body as his breaths return to their being and their hearts no longer threaten to overflow. Even if he doesn't want to believe it, this moment is too much like all those "last times". They've had more than they should, and as much as the strong one wants to become, he knows he'll wake up more fucked up than he is now.

_"That's death, Sammy. Forgetting..."_

Death to whom? What about those who are forgotten? Don't they die in a certain way?

He separates just enough to look for Dean's eyes, which become cautious in the face of the sudden urgency and demand of their own.

“Don't you dare forget me...”

Dean frowned in a questioning gesture as his eyes offered an embarrassed apology.

“Why?” he dares to ask.

Sam closes his eyes and tries to calm down, but when he opens them, that certainty is still there.

“Because, if you do, I too will cease to exist.”

“Don't talk nonsense!”

Dean tries to get out of him, feeling that anger emerge which is really just fear. He struggles, but Sam is too big and he's too fucked up, and suddenly that infinite kaleidoscope that Sam's eyes are is back on him.

“It's the truth,” whisper, “it's the truth, Dean...”

“Don't... Don't say that, you'll be fine. It's my head that's wrong! It's my...”

“You said it yourself, Dean. Forget..., that's death. But being forgotten is also death.”

Dean looked at it without understanding.

“If you forget me, everything I've been so far will die with you.”

“You have your own memories...”

“Fragments, Dean. A single point of view that I will never be able to refute because you are the only constant in my life. Our lives are memories that are complemented by the memories of those around us, of their points of view, of their own sensations. That's what we are. I feel that if you forget me I will no longer be anything, the part of me that lives in you will die. My childhood, our moments together, who I am. Not what others see in me, but who I really am. Only you know, you know better than me. You know me better than I do.”

“You have Mom. You have friends...”

“They don't know me, Dean... They're not you.”

“Sammy... You can't tell me this.... I..., I don't know...”

And worry and guilt float again over that dam that threatens to spill over Dean's eyelids.

“Just swear to me that you're going to fight. Until I find the solution. There has to be something... Someone has to know. Rowena is sure that in that book there will be something useful...”

“Sammy...”

“Swear it!”

Dean frowned, but he couldn't refuse.

“I swear.”

“I'm going to find it, Dean, I promise.”

And his eyes glow with that determination Dean can still remember. And he has to kiss him again, because he has promised, because he doesn't want to forget those kisses.

Because he's Dean Winchester, and he's Sam. And Sam is his whole life.

 

**THE END**


End file.
